


Oblivion

by Startabi



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Creampie, F/M, Fluff, Grinding, Post-Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker, Reader-Insert, Shameless Smut, Smut, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, X-Wing(s), literally they fuck in an xwing, there aint much to it y'all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:33:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22906294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Startabi/pseuds/Startabi
Summary: The war is over.You've won.What better way to celebrate it by fixing up your ship...That is, until Poe Dameron arrives...
Relationships: Poe Dameron/Reader, Poe Dameron/You
Comments: 8
Kudos: 236





	Oblivion

**Author's Note:**

> feel free to yell at me and enjoy this godforsaken FILTH 
> 
> www.jangofctts.tumblr.com

It's over.

The war is over.

You're sitting in the cockpit of your little starfighter—scrounged up and restored from the kriffing _Clone Wars—_ when the First Order is defeated. Just in the nick of time too. The engine lights are beeping and the circuit panel is shorting and glitching out every two seconds from the hits you've taken. You're no Luke Skywalker when it comes to flying, but you like to think some otherworldly being, or flying space monster, blessed you with your uncanny ability to attract good luck.

Well, not _good_ luck. Somehow you always manage to find yourself on the wrong end of trouble—unlucky luck as your mother would say. Unlucky to be in the situation you're in but lucky enough to escape in the strangest of manners. Like now, for instance. Your ship is pretty much on fucking _fire_ , but you're _alive_.

"S-s-s-ship m-mal-malfunction. Malfunction," D-0 chirps helpfully from the belly of your ship. The little roller droid can't do much except state the obvious, or run simple diagnostics but the little bugger had taken a shine to you and damnit—you can't just _not_ take him with you.

"Thanks, Dee," you sigh, toggling the levers to prepare for the jump into light speed. "Guess we should let Poe know, huh?"

D-0 beeps in agreement as your finger presses down on the com. "General? We've been hit pretty good. The ship is in good enough shape to make it back but I don't know how long that'll last..."

There's a pause, then crackly static through your earpiece. "Understood, Blue Leader. We'll rendezvous back on base. Fly safe, kid."

You smile. "Back atcha, Dameron."

Fingers just about to punch the ship into hyperdrive, your com buzzes. "Hey, uh, also. You did good. Couldn't've done it without you."

A blush races up the column of your throat, all the way to the tips of your ears. It's an empty compliment, not worth letting your insides twist around like some weird balloon animal at a birthday party, but _Maker.._. _Poe Dameron—_ Poster boy of the Resistance complimenting _you_.

"T-thanks, Poe."

You don't wait for his response and launch into hyperspace.

-=-

The base, soon after your return, rapidly morphs into a grand celebration. A reunion of friends and new acquaintances meshed together. You share a drink or two with your fellow survivors. It's mostly shitty beer, lukewarm and cheap, but there's plenty and the Resistance is high on spirits so no one is really complaining.

You're not much of a partier. Never had been, even in the academy or back home. Call it introversion or the dead weight of exhaustion like a goddamn sucker punch after the adrenaline high—either way you're slipping away from your circle of friends just as the sun dips low against the horizon.

You wind up at your ship and the sight of it all busted up and charred sends an icy stab through your chest. It belongs in a museum, a fossil from a bygone age, but it's still _your_ fossil.

You snap on the floodlights, pick up your toolbox and get to work.

It's easy to get lost tinkering in the belly of your ship—you don't have to think, to worry or mourn over your friends lost in battle. You do too much of that nowadays—but now—now you can focus your scattered thoughts on rewiring and scrubbing away the remains of battle.

You don't know how long you're there, and you're sure you'd stay here 'till morning. That is, until you hear something stumbling through the underbrush.

Fear prickles at the base of your spine and you really, _really_ hope it isn't some creature out for blood. Like a _moron_ you've left your blaster in the cockpit and all you have is a hefty wrench. _Well_ , you suppose you could throw it.

"Oh, there you are!"

You jolt, narrowly avoiding cracking your forehead into a pipe. You recognize that voice—those boots.

With a sigh, you slip out from under your ship, coming face to face with General Poe Dameron himself. He smiles and waves, eyes a bit bleary from alcohol and exhaustion.

"Hey, Poe."

He smiles again and offers you a hand up. "What're you doin' out here, kid? Party's that way."

You glance in the direction of where he's pointing, noting the way his words slur ever so slightly together. Wiping the black grease staining your fingers onto a spare rag, you quirk a brow. "Are you drunk?"

"No," he lies, a coy smile slipping onto his face. " _Tipsy_."

"Mhm."

"Honest," he says, crossing his heart. He means to lean against the ladder but the toe of his shoe catches on a hidden root and he stumbles. "Oops."

Your hands whip out to catch his arm as you frown. "Tipsy my ass, Poe. How'd you even get over here? I can barely walk around this place _sober_."

His half-lidded gaze drops to your hand still wrapped around his bicep. With a contemplative hum he places his free hand over it and pries it off. You let him take your hand captive, blushing as he studies every scar, every nick and freckle upon the skin. "I was looking for you."

"Ok?" Poe's hands are warm, calloused yet softer than hewn leather. Not to mention, _utterly_ distracting. It's like he's stroking a live wire, and you're not sure how long before you'll combust. "Why?"

Either the question flies right over his head or he's too distracted with rubbing his thumb over the dips and ridges of your knuckles. You guess the latter. "You have pretty hands."

"Sorry, _what?"_ You choke out. You move to pull it away but he quickly intertwines his fingers with yours, securing you there for however long he decides.

"Said you have pretty hands," Poe repeats. He glances up then back down to your interlaced fingers and has the audacity to smile. "They fit together."

If it were any other person there's a high chance they'd wind up in the med ship with a broken wrist and maybe a black eye, but your heart is skipping so many beats you're not sure if you're physically capable. Besides, it'd be like kicking a puppy. An overgrown, _drunk_ puppy—but hey. At least you get to hold hands with Poe Dameron right?

A strange silence ensues.

Well, for _you_ it's strange. He's just _standing_ there holding your hand with a goofy smile on his face. Poe then glances at your ship and furrows his brows. You can practically see the gears in his head spin (albeit, _slowly_ ), and you swear to the Maker that he doesn't suggest a _race_ or some idiotic idea that will _not_ end well.

"Can I show you my ship?"

That's unexpected, but it soothes some of your frayed nerves. You really aren't in the mood to explain why the general ended up dead in a tree. "I've seen it before, Poe."

"Can I show ya again?"

You don't have much of a choice because before you can even open your mouth to reluctantly agree, he's already _dragging_ you forward.

Again, you have no fucking _clue_ how Poe manages to navigate through the dense jungle floor while tipsy for fuck's sake. Your feet manage to find every single spiraling root and uncovered stone along the way. There's a high you've broken your pinky toe, but there's no stopping the eager pilot ahead of you.

You have to admit, as his ship comes into view, that the make up of sleek metal and fresh paint is fascinating to look upon. It's his newest model—still no major chipping or scorch marks, but the sentiment is still there. He shoots you a boyish grin over his shoulder and points.

Sighing, you nod. "Yes, very cool."

"Wanna sit in it?"

Your brows furrow as you turn to look at the pilot. He must be joking. This is a _joke. No one_ gets to sit in Poe Dameron's ship unless it's his own fine, fancy ass parking itself on that leather seat. As far as anyone is concerned, Poe's X-wing is his _baby_ _—_ well, besides BB-8–speaking of which, where is the little bugger?

You must take too long to answer because he grabs your hand again and guides you up the ladder. "C'mon."

The transparasteel canopy snicks open and with a graceful swing of his leg, Poe settles into the seat. You quirk a brow, very much so under the impression _you_ would be sitting in the ship, not watching _him_ do it.

He looks up at you expectantly, all wide-eyed and innocent like a baby loth-cat. You narrow your eyes as he pats his knee. "Are you coming?"

Sudden uncertainty settles in your veins. Under normal circumstances you wouldn't hesitate at this opportunity offered up on a silver fucking platter but he's drunk, or _tipsy_ as he put it. But, _Maker_ , his warm eyes like honey-spun sugar are so expectant and _happy_ you're here.

You bite your lip. All you're doing it sitting with him, in a cramped cockpit...right?

"You...want me to sit in your lap?" You don't mean for your words to squeak out like they do.

"It'll be fine," Poe smiles.

You bite your bottom lip. "Kinda...uh... _cramped."_

"You'll fit."

How many people has Poe exactly had in here? Wether his cocksure answer is based upon experience or just a whim, you don't know. And you're not going to ask—seems _rude_ you figure.

He pats his lap again. "C'mon."

You sigh and shake your head, caving in to his request. "If we get stuck I'll kill you."

Poe's chuckle warms your heart as you swing your leg over the side, trying to avoid the joystick and the various buttons and toggles lining the interior. Last thing you want to do right now is accidentally hit the hyperdrive and send you both catapulting into hyperspace or somehow blow the damn thing up.

You don't get much time to contemplate your fiery deaths before Poe becomes impatient. He hooks his hands around your hips and yanks you back onto his lap. With a squeak, you topple into him, your head narrowly avoiding the durasteel panel behind the pilot's seat.

The cockpit is cramped as is, but with another body wedged in, there's little to no room to wiggle around. You're used to tight spaces—never bothered you—but now your heart is pumping, pulsing and roaring in your ears at how _close_ you are. How tight the cockpit is. Your back is molded into his chest as the tops of your thighs brush the underside of the control board. You feel his heartbeat thrum and take some comfort knowing that you're not the only one whose heart feels ready to rupture a valve.

You don't notice how stiff you are until he presses his fingers against your forehead and pulls back until your head is settled in the crook of his neck. "Relax. I'm not gonna bite you."

Your nose brushes along the warm skin of his throat, a bit clammy from the heat of Ajan Kloss but the sharp, lingering smell of ozone and his own underlying scent floods your nostrils and you're _lost_. You don't even realize words are slipping out until they fill the quiet space and you're left to clean up the damage. "What if I like that?"

His surprised chortle rumbles through his chest. "Are you sure _you're_ not drunk?"

Your blush burns hotter than binary suns and you want to smack your head against the throttle but you can't kriffing _move—_

"I'm assuming," he purrs, interrupting the shame parade currently banging on your door, "since you're in my ship, sitting on my lap...I can do this."

"Wha—"

Poe's hand sweeps up to cradle your jaw and tilts his head, molding his mouth onto yours.

You've kissed others before, sure, but with Poe? With Poe— _Stars_ , it's like firecrackers that explode in your chest. A supernova that's imploding, swallowing you whole until you're nothing but brilliant stardust. His lips are warm and softer than expected—a bit scratchy from the stubble lining his face—but you wouldn't change a thing.

You sigh and tangle your fingers up into the thick curls at the base of his skull. The taste of Corellian fire whiskey pricks your tastebuds as he pushes closer and trails a teasing line over your bottom lip. Your mouth parts and his tongue slides against yours, hot and wet.

 _Maker—_ you never want to stop. You're drunk on him—completely trashed, thrown into the wringer—but the angle is awkward and you're eventually forced to break away. Poe whines at the loss and presses his lips over your cheek resting on his shoulder, tempting you into another kiss.

It's short, but no less than passionate.

You're dizzy as you part. "Wow."

Poe hums in agreement and cuddles his nose into the crook of your neck. He trails light, feathery kisses up the column of your throat you readily bare for him as his hands inch up your waist. "Can I...?

You nod and untuck your shirt, close to fucking _melting_ into a pile of goo as his hands land over bare skin. Poe cups your breasts and without any forewarning—digs his teeth, _hard_ , into meat of your shoulder.

A strangled yelp tears free from your vocal cords—this has _no_ business feeling this good. You were _joking_ before. You shouldn't enjoy the way the hard enamel of his teeth seem to find a direct pipeline to your arousal but yet, here you are.

"You weren't kidding," he jokes, laving his tongue over the afflicted patch of throbbing skin. Goosebumps race up your spine as he shoves your binder up. "Didn't peg you for the type, kid."

You gasp as he rolls your nipple between his forefinger and thumb. "S-shut up."

He chuckles and nips at your earlobe, a razor sharp bolt of adrenaline shooting through your chest. "You smell good. Makes me go crazy whenever you're around."

You're pretty sure you smell more foul than a womp rat after being cooped up in your ship for _hours._ The acrid smell of electrical fire still clings to your hair and the lingering sweat still sticks to your body, but his compliment still has its affect. You swallow. "Ye-yeah?"

"Yeah," he copies, "I think about you too."

Poe's hips start to rock, grinding something firm and unyielding against your ass. You groan and arch against him. " _Poe_."

"Serious. Can barely _think_ when you look at me."

"Th-that isn't saying much," you retort, "you don't use your brain much anyway."

He huffs and trails his hands down, carving a steady path towards your hips. Giving them a squeeze, he guides your backside against his hardened cock with a deliberate roll of his hips. A heated flush warms your belly, travels all the way up to your ears.

 _Stars_ _—_ you're wearing too much.

He grabs a handful of your thigh, massaging the muscle until your knees push against against metal from how far you try to spread them. He cups your cunt, and the tantalizing pressure isn't enough to satiate the growing flames of your desire.

You're about to ask, beg, _whatever_ it takes when he asks you to lift up. You do so with little hesitation and let him wiggle your pants and his own down. You both inhale sharply as the underside of his cock is swallowed by your slick, swollen lips.

" _Fuck_ ," Poe growls in the crook of your neck. His eyes are squeezed shut as his fingers dig into the flesh of your hips. "Shoulda got drunk sooner."

You don't want to agree but it's hard not to when the wide tip of his head catches against your clit. Poe's fingers unlatch themselves from your hip and dip down to feel your wetness, tracing a burning circle over the stiffened bundle of nerves the down over your labia.

You throw a hand up and around, curling your fingers into his hair. His cock jumps as you give the soft curls and playful tug. "Don't pull _too_ hard. I—"

He's cut off as you give the roots a firm _yank_.

Poe's broken moan, something akin to your name, echoes through the empty jungle, no doubt altering every poor soul within a mile radius as to what you're up to.

"Didn't peg you for the type, Dameron," you throw back with a grin. "Do you—"

Your own words are severed at the root as two fingers, broad and calloused, push into your tight, aching, pussy. You clench around the digits, thoroughly coating them with your wetness as he starts to push in and out.

His other hand squeezes your breast as your hips jerk and roll down onto his fingers. "That's it. Let go like this."

Poe is curling his fingers, zeroing in on that little patch of nerves that makes stars burst behind your eyes. The heel of his palm is rocking against your clit and you're surprised with yourself how close you are to catapulting off the edge of ecstasy. He kisses a line up your bared neck and catches you in a short, open mouthed kiss, tangling his slick tongue with yours.

You whimper his name, arching against his chest as he drags you closer to release. With one last swipe against your clit, his teeth latch on to your other shoulder—a matching set of sure to be bruises.

With a cry your body goes rigid, sharp, intense heat setting your nerves ablaze. Your core clamps around his fingers like a vice as the crescendo of your rapture catapults into you like a fucking battering ram.

 _Fuck_.

He's _killing_ you.

Your thighs twitch as he continues to finger you through your orgasm. It almost hurts, nerves rubbed raw, and he doesn't let up until you whisper his name with a pleading whine. You shudder as he slips his fingers out. Cool air rushes over the throbbing flesh, making you aware of exactly how _drenched_ you are—there's a wet patch pooling over his bare thigh but if it bothers him, you'd be none the wiser.

"You ok, kid?" Poe hums and you can _feel_ his smug smile. "Not bad for a guy with no brain, huh?"

"M'gonna strangle you," you mutter in his neck. "Don't think I won't."

"Aww," Poe coos, wrapping his arms around your middle to tuck you in close, "but I think I might have something better in mind."

His hands move to cup your ass, grinding his still painfully hard cock on the underside of you thigh. You don't know how he's gonna fit at this angle—you can barely move—but he gently pushes against your lower back until you're lying over the dashboard.

Buttons and toggles cut into the flesh of your arms and that old nightmare resurfaces. You do _not_ want to eject yourselves into the stratosphere, thank you _very_ much.

"Poe—"

He waves off your concerns. "S'fine. Ship's powered down."

You nod and try to sate your concerns.

Poe inhales a shaky breath behind you—it's a turn-on, you think, seeing you bent over _his_ ship, dripping wet and wanting. He swears and grabs the globe of your asscheek, kneading the supple flesh. " _Shit_. I've been—been thinking about this for _months_. _"_

The admittance is like a punch to the gut.

He takes both halves of your bottom, spreading them as he grinds his shaft along the slippery folds of your cunt. Fresh waves of arousal roll through your belly and you arch your back, tempting him to just _fuck_ you already. " _Please_."

Poe chuckles and tangles a hand in your hair. "Please what?"

A frustrated groan escapes you. Your attempt at rocking your hips back is thwarted by his other hand pinning the middle of your back down against the console. " _Poe_."

"You can do better than that," he goads, licking a stripe from the base of your neck to your ear. "You were begging for my fingers before. Why so shy now?"

You swallow, your nails finding purchase on the lip of a button. Embarrassment bubbles at your throat, forcing the words that stick to the roof of your mouth out. "F-fuck me."

Poe nips at your earlobe, gripping his cock to part your folds, guiding it towards your fluttering hole, still sensitive and pulsing. You groan as he presses _just_ the tip of his shaft inside your soft cunt, then back out again. "C'mon. Tell me what you want."

 _Stars_ _—_ you hate him. You hate how easily he can cut through your resolve like a hot knife through butter. Pleasure is twisting your thoughts, yanking and unraveling your very existence until it's only _Poe_.

"Please," you try again. "I ne-need it. Need you to fuck m-me in your ship. I-I'm all yours— _please!"_

He seems to consider your begs, a blush crawling up your cheeks at the idea of begging _more_ when he, without warning, drives home.

You cry out as he pushes in deep, your tight hole clenching and spasming as you fight to adjust to his thickness. A fragile moan leaves his lips, so perfect you wish you could play it on repeat, as your pussy sucks him in deeper.

"Fuck, you're perfect," he gasps, "better than I imagined."

He starts to move, slow thrusts that catch against every ridge and fold, savoring your softness and wet warmth. It's not enough. He's going far too slow to satisfy the aching need, growing and filling every inch of your body until you're sure it's going to burst.

With a whine you throw your hips back against him and he seems to pick up on your desperation because he _shoves_ back in—hitting the very end of you and pulling back out, setting a rough pace hard enough to break your back. You don't care—you don't _care_ if he does.

He's driving you to the edge of oblivion—flirting with enlightenment and insanity until the edges blend and mesh together.

"Maker," he grits out. "Gonna re-remember this _forever_. You-you think th-the ship'll s-smell like you after?"

His arm wraps around your front, sliding between your legs to circle your clit. You moan and jerk against him, the sharp dregs of pleasure stacking up like faulty bricks—one kick and you're done for. Poe's pants fan across your shoulder and he _feels_ you stiffening and clamping down on his cock, your wetness all but drowning him.

"Yeah, like that," he grunts. "Cum on my cock. G-get this whole _fuckin'_ ship dirty."

With a strangled sob, your back arches and you're _gone_. A rush of euphoria, so rapid and deep like a bottomless vortex, wrenches you down and spits you out against the sharp rocks of release. _Stars_ _—_ you've lost your fucking _mind_.

You're shuddering and twitching, whimpering his name as Poe fucks you through it, whispering filthy nothings in your ear as you float back to reality. "M'close. Hold on—just, _fucking_ _—_ hold on."

Obscene slapping sounds fill the dark jungle, your quiet mewling following after every weighted thrust he makes. Three—maybe four—your not sure—rolls of hips and shouts your name like a goddamned prayer.

He jams his cock as far as your cunt will let him and cums deep. You feel it, hot and mixing with your own release. He rocks shallowly against you and once he's completely spent, he dots kisses on the fragile skin covering your spine and pulls out, slumping into the seat. You both groan at the loss.

 _Fuck_ _—_ you can't move. Your head is still _spinning._

Eventually, as your heaving chest begins to still and your brain stitches itself back together, a question resurfaces to the forefront of your mind. "H-how many people have you _done_ this with?"

With a breathless chuckle, he traces a path down your ass with his index finger, eyes fixed on the pearly white liquid oozing out of your abused hole. With two fingers he scoops it up and pushes it back inside you with a quiet curse. "In my ship? Just you—couldn't convince anyone else."

"Wow, thanks," you snort. "I guess my standards are real low."

"Hey, I didn't mean it like that," Poe says, smoothing a hand over your hip. He urges you to cuddle back into his chest and your legs—hell, your whole _body_ feels like jello—tremble as you shift off the control board and into his arms. "I meant—"

"I know what you meant, Dameron," you laugh, catching his mouth with a sweet kiss. "I'm messing with you."

He grumbles something under his breath and buries his nose into your hair. You stay like this, nestled in the cockpit, listening to the soft ambiance of the jungle and distant party that still rages. Stars glitter overhead, winking and forever enticing to the eye.

Poe plants a kiss into your hair. "Wanna do it in your ship?"

_"No!"_

**Author's Note:**

> www.jangofctts.tumblr.com


End file.
